


In The Time of the Breach

by mangocianamarch



Series: Le Livre de L'abondance par La Dame Marciana [11]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Character Death, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Inquisition AU where the Hero of Ferelden is Hawke's Warden friend, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Polyamory, Smut, WIP, descriptions of violence, tagged DAI relationships are mostly side relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 09:45:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3763477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangocianamarch/pseuds/mangocianamarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sathien Amell, once called a hero, has found herself an outcast, even a target, of the very Order she had fought so hard to rebuild after the Fifth Blight. Although protected by her connections to the royalty of Ferelden, she has spent most of the past few years on the road and on the run. Now that a new evil threatens Thedas, she finds herself needed again. Will she find footing and purpose again in Skyhold, or will aiding the Inquisition convince her even more that "former" is all she will ever be now?</p>
<p>A re-imagining of the events of "Dragon Age: Inquisition" with the Hero of Ferelden as Hawke's Warden friend instead of Alistair, Loghain or Stroud.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crestwood

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER** : I own nothing, and make no profit off any of this. I DO NOT GIVE PERMISSION TO ANY OUTSIDE PARTY TO PUBLISH THIS FIC ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY KNOWLEDGE OR CONSENT. 
> 
> **AUTHOR NOTES** : my first full DA fic lkjadsf pleASE BE GENTLE. i'm rather rusty in terms of fic writing in general as well, so concrit would be nice (does anyone still even say "concrit" anymore) if it's needed.
> 
> ALSO: bewaRE OF SPOILERS, coz obviously i'm going into the story of Inquisition itself, so a lot of these - especially the first few chapters - will literally be re-telling of full scenes from the game, just tweaked to include or come from the POV of the Warden.

It’s the footsteps that alert Sathien. Despite the pressing silence of the cave, despite the amplified _music_ in her head, she hears the steps. Her hand is on the hilt of her blade before she even starts moving away from her maps.

Too used to sneaking around, Sathien’s own steps are silent as the grave. She steps close, closer, hand fisting around the handle of her sword. The stranger’s back is turned to her as she slowly looks around the cold, dripping cave. Good – the element of surprise remains. Sathien plants her feet, pulls her sword out of its scabbard.

The swish of it draws the newcomer’s attention, and when she turns around, it’s to the wrong end of Sathien’s sword mere inches from her collarbone. She says nothing. Neither does Sathien. To the stranger’s credit, there is no fear or alarm on her face. To Sathien’s credit, her peripheral vision catches a quick flexing of fingers.

“It’s just us,” calls Marian, stepping into the light, the top of her staff knocking against protruding rock, “I brought the Inquisitor.”

Sathien schools her face to keep the realization off as the Inquisitor, tall and lean with deep green eyes, fixes her with a look that’s half-yielding and half-challenging. Sathien is almost impressed.

“Sygrid Trevelyan,” offers the Inquisitor.

Sathien barely hears – something else piques at her interest. She looks past Hawke and Trevelyan, to a burlier man cloaking himself in the shadows. “Wait,” she says, “You have a Grey Warden with you.”

The other Warden gives her a slight bow. “Warden Blackwall,” he introduces.

The name rings a bell, albeit a very tiny one. “Blackwall?” Sathien repeats, “Yes, I think I’ve heard a friend mention you.” When the Warden doesn’t reply, she turns her attentions back to Hawke and her guest. “Warden-Commander Sathien Amell. Or, _former_ Warden-Commander anyway.” She lowers her sword at last, and she thinks she hears a collective sigh of relief. “It’s a pleasure to meet all of you. Although I do wish it was somewhere nicer.”

Recognition sparks on the Inquisitor’s face. “Amell?” she echoes, “You wouldn’t be _the_ Warden Amell of the Fifth Blight? The one they call the Hero of Ferelden?”

Sathien doesn’t even try to stop herself from shaking her head. “Even out here, people remember that,” she says to no one in particular, bemused, “Somehow, I’m strangely glad it still matters to _someone_.”

“Of _course_ it matters, Sathien,” Marian notes, and Sathien can practically _hear_ the rolling of her eyes, “You saved an entire nation, of _course_ it matters.”

“Only insofar as drunken tavern tales and bedtime stories,” Sathien snorts, “They call me a hero but don’t really understand why, at least not past ‘she saved us all from dying.’ Does anyone really _care_ how I did it? I don’t think so.”

“You wouldn’t want them to anyway,” Marian shoots back.

“True,” replies Sathien with a little point of her finger in concession.

“You said ‘former’ Warden-Commander?” asks the Inquisitor, and Sathien sees Hawke shoot her a look, but Sathien only shrugs.

“It’s a bit of a story,” she tells Trevelyan honestly, “One that may or may not be part of yours, as a matter of fact.”

Now Trevelyan truly relaxes, holding her chin up a little higher,  settling into a less defensive stance. “I’ll take all the help I can get,” she says, and Sathien hears the relief in her voice, “I know the Wardens have troubles of ther own. I wonder though – might those troubles have anything to do with Corypheus?”

“I can’t say for sure, not yet,” Sathien answers, “When Hawke killed Corypheus, the Wardens thought it a done deal. Then again, Archdemons don’t die from simple injury. I thought maybe Corypheus might have the same power, so I started to investigate.”

She turns back to her table, to the scattered notes and weathered maps, pointedly keeping her gaze away from one particular scrap of paper, folded and situated away from the rest. She’s memorized its contents by now, anyway.

“There were hints, but hardly any proof, if at all,” she continues, “Then, not long after, every Warden in Orlais began to hear the Calling.”

Marian gasps, but almost inaudibly. “You never told me,” she says, and she sounds a little angry. Concerned, even.

“It was a secret,” Sathien points out with a small shrug, “A very dangerous one.” Her eyebrow goes up before she can stop it. “Despite everything, I do still try to keep a few of my oaths to the Order.”

“Is the Calling some sort of…Grey Warden ritual?” asks the Inquisitor, and Sathien almost – _almost_ – smirks.

“Well, Wardens are…tied to the darkspawn,” she says, choosing her words carefully, “We’re _connected_ somehow. Over time, that connection poisons you. You get bad dreams, and then you start to hear the music. It _calls_ to you, quiet at first. And then so loud, you can hardly stand it.” 

The only one not looking at her, almost completely enraptured by her story, is Marian. Sathien can imagine why. The concern in her tone a while ago wasn’t _just_ for her; she’s not the only Grey Warden Marian knows.

“At that point, you make your goodbyes,” Sathien plows on, herself unable to look at Marian, “Then you head to the Deep Roads to die fighting. ‘In death, sacrifice.’”

When Marian speaks again, she can’t keep the worry out of her voice anymore. “And every Grey Warden in Orlais is hearing that right now?” she asks, “They think they’re _dying_?”

As if on cue, there’s a trill in the song in Sathien’s head, almost as if the music is _laughing_.

“I believe so,” Sathien tells Marian, trying to ignore the sharp crescendo in the song, “And I think Corypheus might have something to do with it, at the very least, if he didn’t _cause_ it.” She shakes her head. “If all the Wardens die, who will stop the next Blight? That’s why they’re all so terrified.”

She _knows_ she’s the one who had said the words out loud just now, but she’s almost sure she’d heard them in _his_ voice instead. Had those been his exact same words as well, the last time they spoke?

“Thanks to the Calling, Corypheus has them scared,” Marian summarizes, brows furrowed, “And they’re playing right into his hands.”

That last part sounded almost accusatory, but Sathien chooses not to bring it up.

“Is the Calling they’re hearing real,” Trevelyan inquires, “Or is Corypheus mimicking it somehow.”

Sathien cocks her head. “I couldn’t say,” she replies truthfully, “Before any of this began, I barely knew of Corypheus at all, past what little I’ve heard of him. I only found out he was supposed to be a magister when I started digging. Whatever – whoever – he is,  what’s important is that the Wardens are acting as though they’re all going to die.”

Something crosses Trevelyan’s face. “You said _all_ the Wardens are hearing the Calling. Does that include you?” she ponders, before turning to her companion. “And also you, Blackwall?”

“Yes, I _am_ hearing it,” Sathien sighs,  and again there’s a spike in the tone of the song in her ears, and it’s almost out of defiance of it that she continues with, “When I’m talking or fighting, I can almost ignore it. But whenever things are quiet, when I’m alone, I can hear it. It’s like a song you can’t get out of your head. Fucking annoying, actually.”

“I do not fear the Calling,” offers Blackwall, “and worrying about it only gives it power. Anything Corypheus does will only strengthen my resolve.”

 _Flattened in twenty words or less_ , Sathien snorts inwardly, _You’re losing your touch, Amell._

If the Inquisitor thinks the same, she doesn’t say so. “How can Corypheus make all these Wardens hear the Calling?” she asks instead.

“I don’t actually know,” Sathien replies somewhat lamely, “It might be part of what he is. He’s tied to the blight, that’s for sure, instead of being just a product of it like most darkspawn. We Wardens are connected to the darkspawn, too. I suspect that’s how he’s controlling any that get too close to him. That could be what he’s doing here as well…somehow.”

The Inquisitor’s expression is of mildly distressed concern. “So the Wardens are making some last, desperate attack on the darkspawn?” she wonders. She sounds genuinely worried. Sathien finds she’s rather grateful for that, even though the question itself sounded a bit _chiding_.

“I _saw_ what a Blight did to Ferelden,” she reminds them all, keeping her voice low but firm, “If Wardens hadn’t stopped it, there’d be _no more_ Thedas.”

That seems to do the trick; the Inquisitor visibly backs down, while tension leaves Marian’s brows.

“The job description of a Grey Warden is to _survive_ until such time that we _need_ to die, it’s the only way that a Blight can truly be ended,” Sathien continues, “Sure, any ordinary soldier with enough wits and skills can deal enough damage to an Archdemon, but that doesn’t _kill_ it. Only Grey Wardens have the… _capacity_ to kill an Archdemon. It’s why we care so much about this whole _deal_ with this Calling, real or no.”

Marian shifts her weight from one foot to the other, crossing her arms in front of her. She knows all this, maybe she even knows everything that Sathien _isn’t_ saying. Would Carver have told her?

“Warden-Commander Clarel proposed some drastic things,” explains Sathien, and momentarily the scene plays again in her mind’s eye, “She thought blood magic might help to prevent further Blights before we die. As a Circle mage myself…well, you can only imagine how strongly I might’ve protested. Voices were raised, guards were called, and…well, here I am.”

She sees Trevelyan nodding slowly. She gets it. At least _someone_ does.

Sathien points to one of her maps. “Last I heard, Wardens were gathering here, in the Western Approach,” she tells them, and begins to gather her things,  picking up the folded piece of paper from the other end of the table and pocketing it, “It’s an old Tevinter Ritual Tower. I’m going to investigate. Any help would be welcome.”

She pushes past them, Marian and the Inquisitor and their comapnions, all watching her silently as she walks out of the cave and into the rain, not bothering to cover her head or shield her eyes. She’s used to the rain. She’s used to blistering heat. She’s used to extreme cold. She’s used to anything and anywhere that aren’t the secure, comfortable quarters she _should_ be in, away from all of this. She gave up on ever actually being used to being comfortable a long time ago.

“Wait!” calls the Inquisitor, and Sathien stops and turns, “You’re going now?”

“I’ve nothing better or more important to do,” Sathien answers with a shrug, then wrinkles her nose at herself. _That sounded a bit too much like **him** , old girl._

“Go on ahead of us,” offers Trevelyan, “I will offer you all the help I can give, whether or not Corypheus is in fact connected, but there’s still the rift in the middle of the lake that I need to take care of, among other things.”

“I think that’s wise, Sathien,” Marian offers, “We can scout ahead.”

“Then take the maps inside the cave so you know where to go,” Sathien tells the Inquisitor, “You might want to hurry – there’s a reason I didn’t blow the candles out.”

She doesn’t wait for anyone to reply. She heads east, towards the village, hoping her friend the barkeep can spare a pie or two.

 

  


  


  


\-- TBC --


	2. The Western Approach

Across the archway, Marian tosses her the bandage, low enough to be inconspicuous but high enough for Sathien to see. The Warden catches it with the wrong hand, and she lets out a sharp hiss as her abused wrist twists again.

“Are you all right?” Marian asks. There almost doesn’t seem to be a point in keeping their voices low – the hunted are all inside, and they are both well away from ear shot.

Sathien twists off of her crouch and against the ruined stone, into the shadow and cover it provides. “I’m not dead yet,” she replies as she pins the roll of bandage between her knees and pulls one end off with her free hand.

“Sathien,” Marian tsks.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Sathien insists, using her teeth as well to wrap the bandage around her wrist, “It will heal, and I’ll live.”

Even at this distance, Sathien can hear the sigh that Marian lets out. “Why do you always say things like that?” she asks, irritated, “’I’m not dead,’ ‘I’ll live to see another morning, at least,’ ‘I’ve not started digging my grave.’ It’s so…”

“Fatalistic?”

“Annoying. You always sound so bitter about it." 

“Why wouldn’t I be bitter?”

“About living?”

“About not being dead?”

“Why do you want to be dead so much?”

“Why do you want to be alive so much?”

“Would you _stop_ answering my questions with a question?”

“Are you going to _stop_ asking questions?" 

As Marian sputters, Sathien tucks the other end of the bandage into the rolls around her skin. It should last her a few hours, she hopes.

“What happened to you, Satchi?” Marian asks, quieter this time, actually worried this time. 

Sathien bristles. “One – I told you not to call me that. Two – the easier question to answer would be: What _hasn’t_ happened to me? Three – _I told you not to call me that_.”

“ _He_ still calls you that though,” Marian snorts, and Sathien tuts.

“Do stop reading my letters, dear,” the Warden threatens, tone sweet but intent real, “Or there will be more than just a streak of blood on your nose.”

Marian raises her hands as a sign of concession, but Sathien knows she doesn’t mean it as much.

A beat, and then –

“How is he?”

Sathien lets out a small growl. “I thought you said you’d stop asking questions!” she protests, “Especially that one!”

“No, you _asked_ if I would stop asking, and I didn’t answer, so technically, I didn’t say a thing,” replies Marian, to which Sathien rolls her eyes.

“Here’s your chance to say it then,” the Warden shoots back, “Besides, I didn’t think you were really all that interested in what was going on between him and I.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to make small talk here,” Marian sighs.

Sathien’s eyebrow arcs. “Here,” she repeats, “In the middle of a fucking desert. While on a stealth scout of a tower full of hostiles.”

Marian shrugs. “The Inquisitor and her people could be a while yet,” she points out.

Movement draws Sathien’s eyes, and she doesn’t even try to stop the smirk that hitches up the corner of her mouth. “Or they could be here now,” she returns, rising to her feet. She hears Marian grumble out a “Fucking smart-arse” as she does the same.

“Inquistor, glad you could make it,” Sathien greets as Trevelyan and her band of three join them, “We’ve seen lights coming from the tower.”

“It _has_ to be blood magic,” supplies Hawke, “I hope we can stop them before more people get hurt. You take point. I’ll guard your backs.”

Trevelyan gives her a small nod before turning to Sathien. She notices her eyes flick to her bandaged wrist. She’d forgotten to put her glove back on.

“Landed wrong on it,” is all the explanation Sathien chooses to give her. Trevelyan doesn’t ask for more.

“Lead the way, Warden,” she says instead, and Sathien offers her a small bow before turning on her heel, staff in hand.

They are mostly silent, trying not to alert anyone to their presence until or unless they absolutely must. Sathien gives her as much information as possible in as few words as possible – the less they’re talking the more their attention is on where they’re going.

_Wasn’t it Duncan who might’ve said that once?_

Down the bridge, towards the main entrance. Flies first, and then the smell of spilled blood, and then the _source_ of spilled blood. Bodies of Grey Wardens in a small heap, blood dripping and pooling about them. Grey Warden blood smells different. Sathien fleetingly wonders if the Inquisitor has realized this.

“There." 

There. Just in front of the main doors, where a small group of Wardens have converged. More bodies lie lifeless around them, while demons slowly circle them, not attacking, but waiting. Above them, at the top of the entrance steps, stands a figure in white, a Tevinter, who paces, watching.

Sathien and the Inquisitor and their companions watch as well. They watch as one Warden tries to escape, watch as another stabs him deep. A crackling sound, and then a burst of green light, not just from there but also from the Inquisitor’s hand. A rage demon appears, roaring and fiery, and the offending Grey Warden raises his hand, it too wrapped in the same energy. The demon turns to him, gives him its attention, and then follows him as he falls back in line.

Sathien and Trevelyan exchange a look, and they press forward, now no longer bothering with stealth. The Inquisitor’s staff is also in her hand now, while behind the two of them, Blackwall slowly reaches for his weapon, the elven one draws an arrow and the other mage readies himself.

“Ah, Inquisitor,” greets the white-clad leader, “What an _unexpcted_ pleasure.” His tone suggests otherwise. He bows with a flourish of his arms. “Lord Livius Ermiond of Vyrantium, at your service.”

Sathien can’t keep the sneer off her face, or her tone. “I’m guessing _your_ not a Warden,” she remarks.

Erimond smirks at her. “But _you_ are,” he notes, “The one Clarel let slip. A mage too, at that. Shame – you’d have been very useful.” He turns his attentions back to Trevelyan. “And you found the Inquisitor and came to stop me! Shall we see how that goes?”

The Inquisitor nods her head at the dead Warden at their feet. “Looks like you’ve already done some of my work for me,” she says.

Erimond laughs as if feigning innocence. “What, him?” he says, “We simply needed his blood. Oh, were you hoping to _garner sympathy_? Maybe make the Wardens feel a bit of _remorse_?” He spits out the last word as if it tastes vile in his mouth. “Wardens, hands up!” The mages and their demons do as they’re told, in almost perfect unison. “Wardens, hands down.” Again, complete and unquestioning obedience.

“Corypheus has enslaved them,” Sathien says out loud, unsure if she was saying it to more for the Inquisitor’s benefit or her own shock.

Erimond shoots her a glance. “They did this to themselves,” he drolls, “You see, the Calling had the Wardens terrified. They looked _everywhere_ for help.”

“Including Tevinter?” Sathien can’t stop herself from asking.

This earns her another lopsided grin from the Tevinter. “Yes, and since it was my _Master_ who put the Calling into their little heads, we in the Venatori were prepared.”

He speaks as though he’s something heroic, as if he’s _saving_ the Wardens. Bile rises in Sathien’s throat,  threatens to force itself out of her. 

But Erimond is not yet done. “I went to Clarel full of _sympathy_ , and together we came up with a plan: Raise a demon army, march into the Deep Roads and _kill_ the Old Gods before they wake.”

Beside Sathien, the Inquisitor lets out a small huff. “Ah, I was wondering when the demon army would show up,” she remarks.

This actually seems to take Erimond aback. “You…knew about it, did you?” he asks, tone dripping with uncertainty as he takes a few steps back, “Well, then…here you are…” He regains his compsure again, stiffens his back and plants his feet on the ground. “Sadly for the Wardens, the binding ritual I taught their mages has a…side effect. They are now my Master’s slaves.” He stretches his arms out to indicate the carnage already around them. “This was a test. Once the rest of the Wardens complete the ritual, the army will _conquer_ Thedas!”

The Inquisitor offers Sathien a quick look of what she chooses to interpret as sympathy. “That’s all I needed to know,” Trevelyan tells Erimond.

The bastard snorts. “Oh, _please_.” He raises his hand, engulfed in red flames, and it ignites the Inquisitor’s mark. With a groan of pain, she falls to one knee, clutching her wrist. Sathien bends, grabs her, wondering if it would be enough, but the Inquisitor waves her off. 

“The Elder One showed me how to deal with _you_ ,” hisses Erimond, “in the event you were foolish enough to interfere again.” He puts more power into his magic, and the crackling in the Inquisitor’s hand intensifies. “That mark you bear? The Anchor that lets you pass safely through the Veil? You stole that from my Master. He’s been forced to seek _other_ ways to access the Fade.”

With a huff of breath, Trevelyan rises to her feet again. Her hand continues to spark and glow.

“Are you all right?” Sathien asks quietly, but the Inquisitor doesn’t reply. Instead, as Erimond continues to boast, she raises the Anchor.

“When I bring him your hand,” Erimond says, perhaps unaware that behind the wall of energy his magic has conjured, the Inquisitor is back on her feet, “His gratitude will be – ACH!”

He is cut off mid-sentence when Trevelyan powers up her mark to combat him, and then _pulls_. It disrupts Erimond’s magic, and the blast lifts him throws him off his feet. It also nearly pitches the rest of them to the ground. Sathien is both impressed and wary – or would be, if she had the time to be. 

Sathien regains her footing, and moves to stand at the ready beside Trevelyan. Behind them, the Inquisitor’s companions do the same, prepared for a skirmish.

Erimond scrambles to his feet, clutching at his side. “Kill them!” he orders, hobbling to his escape.

Things seem to happen all at once, and then Sathien remembers exactly how much she _dislikes_ demons. The mages ready themselves, and their charges roar and hiss. Blackwall has already pitched forward, sword in hand and shield on his arm, slicing at the first shade he can reach. The elven rogue leaps backwards in the air, letting loose a several arrows at once. The mage strikes his staff into the ground, and the air charges with electricity as chain lightning scrambles through all the enemies. Perhaps hearing the commotion, Marian is quick to enter the fray herself, magic flying everywhere; she refuses to stay rooted.

As the Inquisitor begins to move, brandishing her own weapon and casting spells left and right, Sathien quickly decides to forego her own magic for now. She pulls out her daggers and runs, bent low to stream line her with the wind.

_“Magic is great, Satchi, it honestly is. Sometimes it’s fun watching you work, because you get this stupid smile on your face at the thought that some of these idiots are too far away from you to retaliate. But you can’t always rely on it. Not when your supply of lyrium isn’t steady. What if while you’re conjuring, looking one way, there’s someone else sneaking up behind you, gets too damn close? You need to have something else, something unexpected, at least of you.”_

He was right, of course. And he was a good teacher. Not as good as Leliana, but _good_. And with every slash and slice of her angled blades, she can’t help but wonder if he’d be proud to watch her cutting her foes down with ease these days.

But then the dust settles, and Sathien looks down and sees the dead body of one she had once called brother. The daggers in her hands drip blood, tainted blood. Grey Warden blood smells different. She wonders if they can all smell it now.

_No, there’s_ nothing _he would be proud of right now._

“They refused to listen to reason,” states Hawke, and the regret is as evident in her tone as in Sathien’s mind. 

“You were right,” Sathien sighs, gaze drawn to the burning corpse of a dead mage, “Thanks to the ritual, the Warden mages are enslaved to Corypheus.”

“And the Warden warriors?” Marian asks. Could there be more behind her worry? Sathien isn’t sure. Neither she nor the Inquisitor answers, but Marian doesn’t seem to need one anymore. “Of course. Sacrificed in the ritual. What a _waste_.”

Inquisitor Trevelyan crosses her arm, shakes her head. “Human sacrifices? Demon-summoning?” she ennumerates, “Who looks at this and thinks it’s a good idea?”

“The fearful and the foolish,” Marian supplies.

Again with the accusation. “Hawke, they made a _mistake_ ,” Sathien reminds her, “But they thought it was _necessary_.”

Marian fixes her with a steely glare. “All blood mages do.” Her expression darkens, her voice hardens. “Everyone has a story they tell themselves to justify bad decisions, and it _never_ matters. In the end, you are _always alone_ with your actions.”

Hawke is looking right at her, and Sathien knows why. She knows where the words are coming from, and why they’re directed at her. Sathien chooses not to bring it up.

She brings the attention back to the more urgent matter. “I may know where the Wardens are,” she offers to the Inquisitor, “Erimond fled that way. There’s an abandoned Warden fortress in that direction. Adamant.”

Lady Trevelyan nods. “Good thinking.” 

Hawke takes her turn to speak. “The Warden and I will scout out Adamant and confirm that the other Wardens are there. We’ll meet you back at Skyhold.”

The Inquisitor nods again, but Hawke doesn’t wait to see it. Sathien follows behind Marian, stopping short for a moment when she nearly trips over one of the dead Wardens. She’s quick to look away. 

She had known him. Might’ve even been the one to recruit him before. Sathien wonders if she’ll find the time to send his mother a letter.

 

 

 

\-- TBC --


End file.
